Read that letter, Thames—my lord marquis, I mean. ‘Don’t rightly know how you make that out, you being a French spy and a prisoner and all. I am called Melusine. I love you—unendurably. Her whole conduct and tone had been modest and ladylike. I wish that it worked. They stopped talking, except to each other. Whoever this might be, the visit seemed to have some reference to the carpenter, for, shortly afterwards, Sharples made his appearance, and informed the captives they were free. Her mind invoked her husband, who she imagined lying dead in a ditch somewhere, tortured and killed by brigands or perhaps eaten by creatures like herself, a fate he actually deserved. ’ Melusine spread her hands and sighed.
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